Real Or Not Real That Is The Question
by hoppa12345
Summary: Wilson has been in a terrible accident and is dead. Or is he?


**Real Or Not Real... That Is The Question**

"This had better be good, Cuddy," he snapped as he came through the door. He stopped when he saw the look on her face, his eyes questioning as his mind ran through the possible scenarios. But nothing could have prepared him for her words.

"House," Cuddy said falteringly, her eyes red from crying and brimming now with fresh tears. "It's Wilson." House froze like a deer in the headlights, his gaze locked in hers, his mind suddenly going blank. "He was in a car accident. He... he didn't make it. I'm so sorry."

There was a moment of stunned silence as the news sunk in. Cuddy knew she would never forget the look of absolute horror and shock written all over her diagnostician's face in that moment. Those few seconds of silence would be forever etched into her memory as some of the worst she had ever experienced.

And then there was chaos.

"No!" House screamed, tears streaming down his face as his veneer of composure crumbled before her, leaving THIS - beyond hurt, beyond raw, beyond bleeding. "No no no no no!"

Cuddy ran to him, wrapped her arms around him, dragging him down until his face was level with hers and pressing her forehead against his. "I'm sorry," she sobbed against him. "I'm so, so sorry."

They stood there like that, crying in each other's arms, before there was a pause and House's eyes flashed as he had an epiphany.

"You're lying," he said, giddy with relief as he realised that yes, OF COURSE they were just playing a prank on him. He laughed through his tears, but it came out as more of a choking sound. "You're lying. He's fine, isn't he?" He laughed again.

Cuddy cried harder, feeling her heart break as she felt at once all of her own pain and all of his. She knew he needed her, needed her to be strong for him, but she FELT it. It HURT.

She had just made the decision to pull herself together when he lurched forwards, knowing her silence for what it was, collapsing onto the floor and screaming again, a horrible, twisted, wordless sound of complete and utter agony, that reverberated in her ears and echoed in her memory. He curled up and buried his face in the carpet, shuddering violently. Cuddy sank down beside him, pulling him into her lap as she leaned against her desk.

House shivered against her, his eyes blank. "Wilson," he whispered hoarsely, only half there. "I need Wilson."

Cuddy tightened her embrace, saying nothing, because what could she say, what could ANYONE say, to possibly make this okay?

"Where is he?" he said suddenly.

 **HOUSEMD**

Cuddy tried to shield House's eyes after a few minutes, but House was taller and stared over her head at their mangled, beaten up friend. The nurse that was cleaning him up had left to give them some privacy.

"Why wasn't I called?" he asked finally, sounding strained. "Maybe I could have..."

"No," Cuddy interrupted gently. "He was DOA. There's nothing you, or anyone else, could have done."

"There's ALWAYS something that someone could have done!" he argued, his voice becoming angry. "If your stupid Emergency Department had any good doctors whatsoever, if they weren't so, so INCOMPETENT, then Wilson might still be here! Why, Cuddy? WHY are they so incompetent?"

He was sobbing again now, and Cuddy saw his anger, his need to blame, for what it was. As House fell apart before her, he was trying desperately to cling on to some part of normality, something to keep him sane. He wanted the answer, the REASON.

"Sometimes..." she said quietly, "there isn't any reason." She walked up to him slowly.

"There's always a reason," he choked out as he melted into her embrace, his hands clenching and unclenching the fabric on her back as he struggled to understand. "ALWAYS. People like Wilson don't just... he's such a good... he WAS such a good... I mean, he... people like him don't just... he can't... he was my, my best friend, Cuddy. Why... why would he DO this? He LOVED me, I KNOW he did, so why would he LEAVE me to go through this alone?"

He let out a low, guttural wail.

Cuddy instinctively flinched at the loud sound right next to her ear and moved back slightly. His leg gave out almost at once, so that she had to quickly move in to prop him back up again.

"House?" she said gently. "You need to rest."

He stared at her numbly, his sharp blue eyes uncomprehending. "Wh-what? I'm... I don't... I CAN'T..."

"Come on," she murmured. "I'll get you checked in. I'd say you'll need mild sedation to get any rest tonight. I'll give you painkillers intravenously as well. They'll work faster than pills." She didn't voice her other thought; that if he didn't receive them he would probably end up back on Vicodin. She murmured some encouraging words and he nodded tiredly into her chest, not even having the energy to make a joke about how close to her breasts he was.

"Okay," he whispered roughly.

"Wake up," she said suddenly, her words echoing around him.

He looked at her, confused. "What?" he asked as his whole world titled and spun and he collapsed into darkness.

 **HOUSEMD**

House jerked awake. Someone was shaking him. He lifted his hands to bat the person away but they were trembling, and he realised with a jolt that he was crying silently, tears streaming down his face.

"House?" Wilson asked, looking concerned.

"You're dead," he said shakily. He looked at his friend, who was fuzzy and out of focus, immediately and effortlessly concluding that he must be dreaming.  
Wilson looked slightly shocked. Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn't been that.

"What?"

"You died. In a car accident. I saw the body. It was mangled and I, I..." his voice broke and he buried his face in his hands, ashamed to be seen crying in front of the now frozen-to-the-spot oncologist, even if it was only in a dream.

Wilson moved towards him, taking his wrists gently in his hands and moving them away from his friend's face. It was red and tear-streaked, and he looked so uncharacteristically upset, so... so OPEN, that Wilson had to swallow back against a sudden lump in his throat.

"Come here," he instructed gently after a moment's hesitation, wrapping his arms around the still-crying diagnostician. "You'll be okay. It was just a dream."

"N-no... THIS is the dream. And when I wake up you'll... you'll be gone again."

"No, House," Wilson said quietly, disappointedly. He took a step back. "THIS is the real world. How many Vicodin have you taken?" Immediately Wilson came into focus, and the diagnostician could see how concerned his friend was.

House blinked, disorientated, and hesitated for a moment before he said, "I... I don't remember."

House looked lost without Wilson there holding him, but the oncologist resisted stepping back to his friend. He needed House to be able to look him in the eye, to see just how serious he was.

"Try harder," he said grimly. "How many?"

House stared at him guiltily for a moment before he looked away, and when he looked back all traces of emotion were gone from his face so that he would have looked as stoic as ever, had it not been for the tear tracks.

"Fifteen."

Wilson choked. "Fif... House, you could have died!"

"Not in a dream!" House argued, then froze suddenly, staring at Wilson like he'd suddenly sprouted wings.

"What?"

"Am I..." House swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Am I... DEAD?"

Wilson couldn't suppress a disbelieving laugh. "What? No, House, you're not dead! You're God-damn lucky to be alive!"

"But... it felt so real," he said softly.

Wilson shot him an annoyed look. "Just go to sleep, House," Wilson said curtly. "I'm right here if you need anything. I'm not going to leave, although heaven knows I should, and I would if I had even a snippet of self-preservation, which you clearly also don't possess. I guess we're perfect for each other, hey," he said dryly.

House stared at him, wide-eyed. "How do I know that you're not lying to me? How do I know that I won't wake up and find that you're actually dead?" His voice rose like a child's. "I don't want to go back there! I don't want you to be dead!"

The oncologist could see that his friend was getting worked up again, and he sat down on the edge of the bed against his better judgement as unwelcome sympathy coursed through him.

"You'll just have to trust me," Wilson said quietly, running his fingers comfortingly through House's hair. "I'll be right here when you wake up. It'll all be okay, I promise."

The diagnostician lay quietly for a while, and just when his friend though he'd drifted off to sleep, House sat up abruptly and let out a shuddering breath. "I, I can't. I'm afraid, Wilson."

Wilson got up and went around to the other side of the bed, House's sad blue eyes following him closely the entire time. He placed a pillow up against the headrest and sat against it.

"Wh... what are you doing?"

Wilson gestured for his friend to come closer. House went to sit beside him. Wilson put an arm around his friend's shoulders, pulling him in. House slid down and twisted so that his face was buried in Wilson's chest. Wilson ran his fingers lightly through House's hair again, murmuring to him softly as the diagnostician finally fell asleep.


End file.
